


Tuxedos and Tulle

by iridescentglow



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Callie and Cole go to prom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuxedos and Tulle

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Some transphobic bullying. Mentions of a Brandon/Callie break-up.

Callie hadn’t heard from Cole in more than a year when he showed up at her door.

“Hey,” Cole said casually, as if the time gap had been more like a week.

“Hey,” Callie returned, just as casually, stepping back to let Cole inside.

“Nice place,” Cole said with a sarcastic smile. “I guess emancipation really is the dream.”

Callie followed his gaze across her studio apartment – all 30 square meters of it. She had to admit, it looked... like the home of someone who went to school full time, worked two jobs and tried to write songs in her _quoteunquote_ spare time. There was the shabby, used furniture (not shabby-chic, just shabby); the three days’ worth of dishes in the sink; the bed that subbed for a sofa in the middle of the room. Drunken catcalls floated in through the open window, even though it wasn’t yet five in the afternoon.

“What are you doing here, Cole?” asked Callie. If he wanted to be blunt, she could be blunt, too.

“It’s my prom next weekend,” he said.

She looked at him quizzically.

“It’s my prom,” he said again. “And I want to go with a pretty girl.”

She couldn’t help but laugh – and then saw immediately that it was the wrong reaction.

“Will you go with me?” Cole asked, his voice flat.

“God, Cole,” she said, shaking her head at the absurdity of it, “isn’t there anyone else you could ask?”

“...Would I be here if there was anyone else?”

That was the crux of her relationship with Cole. They weren’t family, despite their time as “Girls United”. They weren’t friends, despite their stint as roommates. But they were each other’s last resort.

When Cole, shaking with fear and anticipation, went for his first appointment at a real clinic with real doctors, it was Callie who went with him. When Callie finally got her emancipation verdict, it was Cole who stood in the courtroom and cheered. Cole had been there for her when it mattered.

So, really, what else could Callie say, except, “Sure, I’ll go with you.”

*

Callie went to school at a factory-like public school ten blocks from her ILP apartment. Her school’s prom had been held two weeks ago. In between double shifts at the restaurant, it hadn’t occurred to her to go. Her social circle wasn’t exactly huge. No one had asked her and she didn’t care enough to go stag. It wasn’t until prom pictures started showing up on her Instagram feed that she even remembered it was happening.

It just so happened that Anchor Beach’s prom was the same weekend. In between shots of her classmates smiling drunkenly in their run-down school gym, she came across pictures of the Anchor Beach crowd posing in the ballroom of a beachside hotel. The contrast (of poverty and opulence) was so ridiculous that she almost laughed – until she found a picture of Brandon with his arm around Talya. 

It hit her like a blow to the stomach. It wasn’t the memory of their break up that stung (that wound only ached now), it was the realization at how little of an impression she’d truly made in the Fosters’ lives. Like sticking your thumb in a ball of dough and then watching it swell to cover the indentation, leaving its surface just the same as before.

She lived five miles and a million light years from Anchor Beach now. Over there, senior year meant beach volleyball and scholarships to Stanford. Meanwhile, she’d missed the application deadline for community college (accidentally, on purpose, accidentally) and her hair smelled permanently like marinara sauce, thanks to her shifts at the pizzeria.

And yet. Wasn’t prom the great equalizer? No matter if it was in a gym or a ballroom, it was still _prom_.

As she shopped for a dress, Callie thought about Cole’s words: _It’s my prom. And I want to go with a pretty girl._ Cole, despite his hard edges, despite his pretence that he didn’t care, was obviously trying to live up to some fantasy in his mind of prom. A prince with a princess on his arm.

Callie found a dress at a thrift store. It was pale blue, strapless, with lots of tulle – and a big rip in the bodice. She tried to sew up the tear, using the only thread she had (black), but the zig-zagging stitches made it look like a badly-healed wound.

She smiled wryly at the sight of herself in the mirror. Somewhere, buried deep in her consciousness, Callie also had an image in her mind of prom night. She, too, had once dreamed of being a princess.

*

Cole arrived at her apartment on prom night wearing a tuxedo with an orange cummerbund. His hair was slicked carefully into a cowlick. He looked handsome and she told him so. It killed her a little to see the way his face lit up momentarily, before his expression shut down once again.

He leaned over and kissed her awkwardly on the cheek. His face was prickly with the beginnings of a beard.

“This is new,” she said, pausing to rub her thumb across his chin.

He flushed again, proud as a new parent of his changing body.

“Come on, we need to go,” he muttered, hiding his smile. “We have, like, ten more stops to make.”

The rented limo, already half-full of people when Callie climbed in, gradually filled to sardine-can proportions as they made stop after stop, picking up yet more of Cole’s friends. Callie took her lead from the other girls, who sat on their dates’ laps, and perched awkwardly on Cole’s knees as the limo bumped along.

“Sorry, I smell like marinara sauce,” she said to him.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Cole said and mimed taking a bite out of her shoulder.

“Aww, you guys are adorable,” said the girl beside them (Kacey? Kayley?) as she snapped a picture with her phone.

Callie imagined the photo going out into the Instagram ether. She willed herself not to think about Brandon seeing it.

“We _are_ adorable,” Cole said archly. “Shoo-in for prom king and queen, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” said Kacey-Kayley. “And Penny Zetlin will get Most Likely to Succeed.”

The two of them laughed at their in-joke and Callie thought how good it was to see Cole with friends. During the limo ride, he was the life and soul of the party, always ready with a funny comment or a rude impression of a teacher or a popular classmate. He seemed so at ease among this bevy of beauties that Callie wondered why he hadn’t asked one of them to be his date.

When they arrived at the school, however, Callie stopped wondering.

Callie was no stranger to being stared at, but, inside the school gym, eyes followed Cole literally everywhere he went. Even the teachers stared. Only some stares seemed malicious; the rest were simply curious. But the effect was the same. A wall of eyes.

Callie knew that what Cole wanted from this evening was to be just another guy in formalwear with a pretty girl on his arm. But, as Callie slipped her arm through Cole’s and held her head high, she realized queasily how futile it was. Callie could almost hear the staring masses’ thoughts, crass and unkind: _there goes the tranny girl with her dyke girlfriend._

As the evening progressed, Callie tried increasingly hard to make it less awful for Cole.

She dragged Cole out onto the dancefloor, even though she wasn’t much of a dancer and the 50-year-old DJ only played cheesy chart songs. When the other students, squeamish about Cole’s proximity, moved away, Callie danced bigger to fill the space on the dancefloor. She made faces and cracked jokes and told stories about the crazy things pizzeria patrons did at two a.m. when she worked the graveyard shift.

Cole played along for a while, but Callie could see that it wore on him. His mouth grew tight. His eyes got squirrely. His arms fell lifelessly to his sides. _Having fun at your prom shouldn’t be this much like hard work_ , Callie thought, lifting Cole’s arms, puppet-style, along with the music. She suspected that her ‘encouraging smile’ had begun to look more like a wild grimace.

It seemed sadly inevitable when the first blow was finally struck. It was a verbal blow, but it appeared to hit Cole with the force of a fist.

“When you get tired of your freak of a _girl_ friend, I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

The asshole of a guy – buzz cut, bad breath – leered into Callie’s personal space as he spoke. He was flanked by a couple of beefy doppelgangers, who laughed on cue.

Callie, her voice lodged momentarily in her throat, glanced over at Cole. She saw the emotions flare in his face: anger, embarrassment, hurt, fear. He wavered on the spot for a moment. Then he turned and ran out of the gym.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Callie finally screamed at the asshole, knowing her reaction came too late to have any effect.

She wanted to scream it again, at every single person in the room. _What the fuck is wrong with you all?_

Instead, she turned and followed Cole out of the gym. In her puffy dress and Cinderella pumps, she could only hobble-run, which meant she quickly lost sight of Cole. 

The gym’s double doors slammed shut behind her, instantly reducing prom to a memory. In the school corridor, it was dim and muted, the music rendered only as a bass line.

Callie walked the hallways, pushing open each door she came to, looking for Cole. His school was a lot like hers in terms of aesthetics: industrial yellow paint on the walls and long banks of blue lockers. It was like her school in other ways, too: big, blank, full of straight lines and small minds. A rehearsal for the real world.

“Cole…?” she called. “ _Cole!_ ”

No response.

She tried another door at random and she almost missed him. She caught sight of him – sitting in the dark on top of a desk, knees pulled up to his chest – just as the door was swinging shut. 

She caught the door with her foot and entered the classroom. She walked toward him, weaving between the desks as her eyes adjusted to the half-dark. Cole, who sat with his forehead against his knees, didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence at all. She perched on the desk next to where he sat and breathed out a low sigh.

“Hey… you okay?” she asked, dumbly, automatically.

Cole didn’t respond.

“You wanna go home?” she asked, an even dumber question, because, for she and Cole, what the fuck did ‘home’ mean anyway? 

“You wanna leave?” Callie tried again.

“I want…”

When he tried to speak, Cole’s voice sounded hoarse and Callie realized he’d been crying.

“I want a prom,” he said with difficulty, his forehead still leaning against his knees. “A real one. A _good_ one.”

They were both silent for a long moment and then Cole finally raised his head.

“I guess I’m just stupid,” he said. “Even after everything, I still thought tonight might be different. I thought I could have one night – _one night_ – to look back on and think… _hey, high school wasn’t so bad!_ ”

Cole pantomimed a big, fake smile, which turned immediately into a grimace.

“People always say high school is the best time of your life,” Cole said bitterly. “Who are those people?”

“…They go to school on the beach,” Callie said. “And read Camus and take photography class for credit.” She let out a low laugh. “I guess we’re not destined to be those type of people.”

Callie shot Cole a wry smile and expected to receive one in return. Instead, Cole’s expression was despairing. The question in his eyes was clear: _Why don’t we get to be those type of people? Why wasn’t ours a good roll of the dice?_

The two of them fell silent once more. Callie listened to the thud of the bass line that emanated from the gym. From this distance, she couldn’t hear the melody or lyrics, just the change of pace as a fast song blurred into a slow song.

Callie hopped off her desk and stood up, extending a hand to Cole.

“Hey, dance with me,” she said.

Cole shook his head.

“Come on,” said Callie. “It’s prom, so let’s dance.”

“It’s prom out _there_ ,” Cole said, jerking his head in the direction of the door. “It’s not prom in here.”

“Hey,” Callie said, undeterred. “It’s prom night no matter where we are. I know it’s prom night because I’m wearing a stupid dress and I’m dancing even though I’m a terrible dancer. We got music, so we should dance.”

She gave a silly little shimmy in time with the bass line and was rewarded with a reluctant smile from Cole.

“You _are_ a terrible dancer,” he said wryly. “I was embarrassed for you out there. Everyone was staring. It was awkward.”

Callie held out her hand to him again. Cole hesitated a moment longer. Then he unfolded his limbs and climbed down from the desk. He stood in front of her, solemn-faced, and slipped one hand into hers. She guided his other hand to her waist, thinking of a Quinceañera and another life, and then gripped his shoulder. 

They stood and swayed awkwardly to the barely-there music in the middle of the darkened classroom.

Gradually, the woodenness of their stance dissipated and they moved closer, figuring out how to fit their bodies together naturally. Callie listened to Cole’s slow breathing, letting the warmth of his body relax her. She felt the cords in his shoulder begin to loosen as well, his fight-or-flight response finally slackening back to normal.

“I don’t remember…” Cole said quietly, “did I tell you I like your dress?”

“…It’s not too Bride of Frankenstein?”

“That’s why I like it.”

“I meant it when I said you look handsome.”

“You didn’t,” Cole said, with a spasm of a shrug. “But. It’s cool.”

“Cole…” she began.

Callie drew back and looked at him. His blue eyes. His freckles. The pale skin that showed every flush. Without thinking, she leaned in and kissed him.

She kissed him because it seemed terrible that there was no one there to kiss him. That this moment might pass and he would go unkissed.

It was an impulse – and often Callie’s impulses were bad ones – but, as her lips covered his, she realized it didn’t feel like a bad impulse. Maybe she would regret it later, but she didn’t regret it now. Warm breath and soft lips and that odd feeling of instant intimacy. 

Cole returned her kiss hesitantly at first, his body mannequin-still, locked in their dancing position. It was as if he were still processing the moment. The foster kid’s reaction to every situation: _wait and see_. Then, slowly, Cole stirred into life. He began to kiss her back – kiss her with his whole body.

Cole’s bravado bubbled up to the surface, overshadowing his earlier self-consciousness. He pulled her closer, kissed her harder, his knee grinding between her legs. His whole demeanor demanded that she meet him there or leave completely. It was another side of Cole, yet somehow still the boy she’d always known.

Cole kissed the way he lived his life: forceful, fearless, unapologetic. It was intoxicating. And it felt good, Callie realized, as her awkwardness melted away. Her skin tingled with exhilaration, alive with new sensation, as she and Cole fumbled to find new places to touch and kiss; fingers invading clothes, lips mouthing unspoken desires. 

Callie could feel the edges of taut bandaging beneath Cole’s shirt as her hands roamed his back. She felt him flinch ever so slightly. For his part, Cole seemed a lot more interested in touching her than being touched. And, _god_ , it felt good to be touched.

The desk behind them skidded backward across tile floor, as Cole’s movements grew more frenzied. It finally lodged against a wall, providing an anchor: Callie found herself pushed against its hard wooden edge and felt nothing except a desire to keep kissing. Cole pressed his body against hers, hands working feverishly to find a way in beneath her skirt.

“I take it back, I hate this dress,” he said, half-aggravated, half-amused. “All this tulle. I can’t even find your cunt.”

“Don’t call it a cunt, then,” said Callie, despite the fact that her clit jumped at the word. 

She lifted aside the layers of tulle and guided his hand between her legs. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers began to explore her. It felt good – _so good_ – to switch off her brain and exist on the surface of the moment.

She began to forget about prom, about bullies and ex-boyfriends; she began to forget there was any world at all outside of this classroom. Her building orgasm stripped away her ability to speak or think.

“ _There_ ,” she murmured incoherently, “oh my god, _there_ …”

She caught Cole’s lips in a clashing, uncoordinated kiss as she came. Relief coursed through her as her body slackened against Cole. She stayed like that for a long moment – recovering – relying on him to hold her up. As she hugged him close to her, her hands again found hard edges of ace bandages.

The ability to speak returned to Callie slowly. 

“…You need to… tell me where I can touch you…” she murmured.

She felt his body stiffen. Fight or flight. She got a very real feeling that he was getting ready to run again.

“Cole…” she said, more distinctly now. “You can trust me.” She placed a careful kiss on his cheekbone.

“T kinda… makes things sensitive…” Cole muttered. 

“All those group therapy sessions? I know sensitive, Cole,” Callie said.

She laughed and then, reluctantly, he did, too. The laughter broke at least some of the tension.

As their laughter ebbed away, Cole kissed her hard on the mouth, as if he had a point to prove. Visibly emboldened, he guided her hand between his legs, just as she had done earlier. Even touching him through the fabric of his pants produced a reaction. She stroked him cautiously and he shivered to her touch.

Carefully, she unzipped his pants and dipped a hand inside his underwear. He shuddered as she began to stroke him there, skin on skin. She’d expected him to be vocal, noisy even, _demanding,_ as he grew harder, closer to coming. Instead, Cole was noticeably quiet. Only in the flush of his freckled cheeks did she see his arousal deepening.

He came, finally, with a gasp of breath. It was as if he were breathing in the moment; a good memory, at last, after so many bad ones.

*

Later, they collected themselves, untangling their bodies, rebuttoning and zipping up, in an act that felt like surfacing from a sex fugue state. The reality of their surroundings – the dusty classroom, with its inspirational posters – returned to them. Awkwardness, too, came roaring back, mingling with a sweeter sense of true intimacy.

“Oh my god, this is my math classroom,” Cole said. “I’m never gonna be able to keep a straight face in here ever again.”

“Who cares?” said Callie, examining a busted stitch on her Frankenstein Bride dress. “You have, what, a month left? Then you’ll be gone. Adulthood. Freedom.”

Cole sounded unconvinced. “Is that what it is? Freedom. I don’t even think I know who I am without CPS.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Callie said, meeting his gaze resolutely. “Maybe we’ll figure it out together.”

Tentatively, Cole reached out to hold her hand and, just as tentatively, Callie let him.

“I think I would have regretted skipping prom,” she said. “Thanks for asking me.”

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

His straight face lasted all of a second before he burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re hilarious,” Callie said, rolling her eyes. “Cole the stand-up comic. Ladies and gentlemen, he’ll be here all week.”

Cole’s continued laughter was interrupted by the sound of cheering from the gym. A final reminder that an outside world still existed.

“I guess prom’s winding down,” Cole said. “Don’t want to miss the king and queen.” He raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Might be us.”

The cheers, which had begun in the distance, grew louder, no longer isolated in the gym. Callie heard the stampeding feet reach the corridor outside their classroom. She heard whooping noises and echoing laughter.

“Come on, prom king,” Callie said, tightening her grip on his hand, “let’s go find an afterparty.”

Cautiously, they left the classroom, blending in with the stream of people that poured out of the gym. They followed the crowd down the corridor toward the school exit. With a jolt, Callie thought she saw the asshole guy from earlier, but a moment later she lost him in the crowd.

Everyone around them was chattering and laughing; hyped up on prom. She and Cole still elicited a few stares, but Callie stared right back, sticking out her tongue just to make Cole laugh. They reached the school parking lot at last, buoyed by a wave of people.

“Hey, wait… wait,” Callie said, forcing Cole to a halt and causing the people behind them to grumble.

Ignoring their complaints, Callie fumbled in her bag until she finally found her phone.

“Picture time!” she said.

She held out the phone at arm’s length to capture her and Cole. He rolled his eyes for the first picture, smiled for the second and pecked her on the cheek for the third.

These pictures were not destined for Instagram. They were not designed to make anyone jealous. They were not pose-y or self-conscious.

They were just pictures to act as a reminder. A reminder that high school hadn’t been all bad. A reminder that the good life didn’t only belong to kids who went to school on the beach and read Camus and took photography class for credit. 

A reminder that she had friends and people who loved her and a whole life left to live.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story. Feedback is loved and adored. Please leave me a comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://iridescentglow.tumblr.com/).


End file.
